


A Sith Speaks

by Cramp



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3504773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cramp/pseuds/Cramp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jadugar, a mighty Sith Warrior, speaks to a captive audience about his training and youth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Captive Audience

I know it is difficult to see what I once was.

People come into our lives fully formed, their characters shaped and their features set. The first impression is ever the standard by which they change. To you am I always the Sith Lord Jadugar Doul, secure in my power and bristling with dark strength. Surely my confidence and indomitability has been a constant throughout my life? How could I have been any different? I will tell you then – for it is rare that one in my position can speak so candidly without repercussions. The world of the Sith is a pit of venomous rakghouls and honesty like that is torn apart ruthlessly.

I grew up on Dromand Kaas, a pureblood Sith, only son to proud red-skinned parents. Unlike many others of my kind, the neighbourhood where I ran riot as a child was not solely human or sith. There were many alien servants and slaves and even a family of rodian merchants that had acquired a modicum of influence. Then is where ideas that have blossomed into maturity took root – I have faced too many Jedi to think that power comes from the alignment of the stars or the colour of the blood in one’s veins. No, power is the derivative of philosophy – that is what makes us superior, and what makes them hate us so.

You see, I am a true believer in the Empire. Many Sith are not – they have adopted the creed for their own use, pay lip service to the Throne in order to gather power to themselves. When the time comes, they will reveal their true colours and be cast down or rise up. But I have seen the droid factories of the Jedi’s champions, the programming that would have them murder anyone with a shred of Sith blood. Genocide on a scale almost unimaginable. That is because the Jedi fear the Code, so much so that they will wipe it from history rather than challenge it with their own. I know how necessary it is for us Imperials to stand united in the face of the Republic – we would not only be subjugated – the right of any conqueror – we would be annihilated.

But this created problems for me. When I was discovered to be force sensitive – just a child – I was sent to a Sith Academy on Dromand Kaas for training. You are aware of the workings of the dark side of the Force, you know it is powered by strong emotions, by passion. In the academy the students are required to cultivate their passions, and the easiest of those is hatred. The methods there have not been changed for millennia, and I believe they are archaic, outdated perhaps. The students themselves become part of the training, pitted against one another – violence is common, deaths and violations often. Comradeship is rare.

The Sith training was designed in a time of hiding. When the goal was to produce the best Sith. The instructors did not care if perfectly acceptable students fell by the way side so long as one outstanding pupil arose, draped in the defeat of his peers, they crushed or dead – in any case, never to become Sith. For this, hatred is a fitting tool, to hate the student next to you, to hate the teacher that punishes you – it will create a few strong individuals and ruin many more. Is it fitting when we fight a war against the Jedi and their Republic lackeys? Will it create a dynasty that will last forever? I have my doubts.

So I could not hate my fellow pupils, nor my instructors. I would not play the games of intrigue and cunning that left so many shallow and despondent in the end. Instead I cultivated a self-loathing, a disgust at weakness. I would not tolerate it in others, why should I tolerate it in myself. I abhor failure and would not allow it in myself. I pushed myself to my limits, used the Force to push me beyond them when I grew tired. When others rested, I trained and I proved myself not through deceit or the undermining of my fellows, but through excellence. There was none who worked harder, none who could cultivate a fury like mine – for what is more galling than to misstep in the only thing one has control over? My example made my peers stronger, for they hated me eagerly, were encouraged to do so. But neither did my rise cut them down – so in my wake came an academy of Sith.

I see the look on your face. You are appalled are you not. How can this be healthy? This systematic harnessing of a hatred for the self. Know that even more than the Jedi, a Sith is self-aware, a master of his emotions, what they mean and where they come from. He must be, for they are the root of all his power. And that means life and death. A Jedi simply quashes, uncaring of source or reason – a gardener killing weeds. A Sith farms – he must know how best to feed, to set the yoke upon the shoulders of the nerf. What causes the rain to fall, the sun to shine? And knowledge takes away the barbs until we only feel. Besides, it is not the worse I have seen – I met a Lord who wore a mask inset with barbs. Three he owned so that new wounds would be opened, that his face would never heal around the holes. In battle he was a contradiction, his powers mightiest when closest to the end.

In the end I was not one to delve into the mysteries of the Force. That is the path of the curious, the hungry. They search and grasp for ever more intricate secrets as a handle on power, but I have my source and it is within me. The Force is strong when I am weak, fresh when I am tired, my sword and shield. Oh, I can manipulate it well enough, I would not have survived the academy if I could not, but not for me the flash of lightning or the subtlety of sorcery. I am the ultimate expression of my mastery. To stand before me, to feel the burn of my lightsaber, that is to stand before the power of the dark side. And none can do that and live.

But all that resides in the present, after betrayal and battle. For now, let me talk of the Sith:


	2. The Hunt

See a young Jadugar. He would call himself a young man but really he is little more than a boy. Already though, we can see the blueprints of the man he will become; the strong broad shoulders, slighter now, but with hints of the layers of powerful muscle that he will acquire. The stern expression and the red eyes that do not waver, but set in a face that is smoother, without the blast scar that pocks the man. He is on a task for his overseer in the academy, another test of his skills and instincts. His class has been sent into the jungle outside of the academy, sent to hunt one of the great beasts that lurk between the foliage. A mighty gundark – the killer of men. That is all the overseers have said:

‘Go into the jungle and retrieve proof of killing a gundark.’

All of his peers, twelve now, after Gidon’s accident, are practiced enough to read deep into those well-chosen words. All on the cusp of graduating or being farmed out to lesser postings, they know to listen to exactly what is said. Not kill a gundark, only retrieve proof of killing a gundark. Jadugar knows that some of his colleagues will be waiting by the entrance to the academy, ready to ambush any student that returned, tired but victorious. Others would stalk a stronger student, waiting until they made the kill and then stealing a trophy from the body for themselves. Some might even act as a team. Nor were there any rules on the size or type of monster slain – no need to hunt a gundark titan if a whelp would do. The instructors did not care – it was the Sith way, only the victory mattered, the way was immaterial. It was one more way they differed from the Jedi, where the way was the only thing that mattered. One more reason the Jedi were weak. The Sith walked the shortest path.

But not for Jadugar. These deceits and collaborations were an expression of fear, of weakness. There was only one sure path to succeeding and that was to conquer the jungle, to kill a gundark. All he has with him are his training clothes and his sparring sword slung over his shoulder. The weapon is unpowered now, but when switched on, its edge could be just as deadly as a vibroblade. His last tool is his fledging command of the Force. He clenches his fists and feels it pulse. This is more than enough in his mind, a true Sith need no more than his sword and his power.

The gundark is not hard to find. Traditionally, the creatures are beings of the dark side and while their numbers are controlled around the major Dromund Kaas cities, they are attracted to places like the academy and the overseers do nothing to dissuade them. Jadugar watches it from behind a buttress root for a long time. It is larger than he had feared, arms that scoop to the ground, a flat all-too familiar face and protrusions of horn that curve into wicked points set all over its body. Not a mature stage gundark, but not a whelp either – one well into its hunter stage, as evinced by the body of the vine cat that lies between its legs. The gundark plunges its claws into the viscera, eating with a dull expression on its face.

It is a mistake, Jadugar knows, to equate size with sloth. This is a lesson he has taught many of his fellow pupils. Too many holovids playing on the stereotype of strong but slow. He shows them different, breaking their nose or sweeping them onto the floor. If they do not learn, Jadugar is happy to continue teaching them. So though he looks at the heavy long arms of the gundark, he sees also the powerful slabs of muscle at the shoulders that will swing those arms about like striking whips. Strategy is called for, the application of his skills like the point of a surgeon’s laser.

Jadugar steps into the clearing, his sword powered, the blade appearing along the length of it, a yellow light that hums. The gundark is furious at the intrusion, this male who would steal his kill. There is a show of force, a hammering on its chest, bellows. Like most animals, it does not want to fight if a display will win the day. It is not intelligent enough to delight in battle like a sentient. Jadugar breathes quickly through his nose, his chest puffing up and down. He is in a stance, his feet apart, knees bent, sword held in the Soresu form. It is not his preferred style, but he is not enough to dominate this scenario, he must play defensively.

Sweat drips down into his eyes as the gundark lowers itself down onto all fours. Jadugar is nervous, afraid, and that makes him angry. The hard bone of his brow stands out against his skin. There is no more display. The attack will be sudden and it is, it happens at the moment Jadugar is just formulating the thought that he should be ready and he is almost caught in it, one long arm catching around his waist, pulling him into an embrace that will murder him. His reactions save him, Sith fast, almost precognitive, and he rolls under the arm, striking as he turns, catching the flailing leg of the monster. The gundark’s momentum takes it bellowing into the ground and Jadugar strikes again before it can right itself.

He has lamed it. Both feet trail uselessly behind the immense weight of its body. It is a small matter from there. The beast is still dangerous and lunges with its arms and face, bony spikes dragging furrows in the earth, but Jadugar is no fool. He moves just beyond its reach and punishes its attacks until the gundark’s arms are burdens and there is a clear thrust through the creature’s neck.

He does not feel elation. Happiness is not a useful emotion, it must be rationed out carefully and only at appropriate times. But he does feel vindication, that he was right to harness his fear and face the beast. That will have to do for now.

He takes the hand. Gundarks continue to grow well into their mature stage and the hand span has long been used as an inaccurate gauge of the creature’s age. It will be a trophy not only to prove he has killed a gundark but also one worthy of a Sith. His instructors would expect nothing less of him.

Neither, apparently do his fellows. Two of them await him. No doubt they think him weakened by his battle, but that just shows how little they know of him, what drives him. It is Fess and Kaiyurlin, both human but Kaiyurlin is not a true Sith. He has been taken by force under Fess’s protection and now follows his lead in all things. They have managed to surprise Jadugar, dropping from the trees and his sword is resting on his shoulder, his finger nowhere near the power button.

Fess is pleased by Jadugar’s prize. To take it will impress the trainers greatly and what’s more, Jadugar returning empty handed and beaten will finally put the red-skinned bastard in his place. He jokes with Kaiyurlin in a manner that is not amusing to anyone, but both humans laugh. Fess promises Kaiyurlin a finger to hand in if he does the honours. The shy boy perhaps smiles and nods eagerly, anything for Fess, but Jadugar does not know, for Kaiyurlin has moved behind him, but he hears the hum of a sword activating. Instead he watches Fess. He is overconfident, and Jadugar cannot understand why. Does he hide behind it? Hoping that he will get strong before his enemies realise his weakness? Whatever the case, Fess has not powered up his sword, trusting in Jadugar’s unprepared grip.

It is a mistake. The power of a sword only gives the illusion of safety. Jadugar sees this in a moment, a shift of perspective as Fess moves his blade through the air. The students are so used to thinking of the swords as off and on that they do not see what is really there. A length of metal, tightly wound coils of power emitters placed around a solid core of durasteel. Jadugar ignores Kaiyurlin, the nervous little creature that will wait for Fess’s signal to attack. Instead he swings. Fess is shocked, taking a moment to activate his blade, a moment that allows Jadugar’s sword to smack against his cheek. This is not training room and Jadugar does not pull his blow. Fess is floored and Jadugar whirls, blade activating in the turn.

He need not have hurried. Kaiyurlin is wide eyed with shock. As he thought, no true Sith at all. A victim of Fess as much as Jadugar might have been, but still he frowns. He might not have planned the ambush, but he participated and would have profited from it. And if he truly wished to be free of Fess... well, Jadugar knocks aside the pitiful defence and only stops when Kaiyurlin ceases his begging.

Another might have made an ally there. Offered a trophy in exchange for loyalty. But Jadugar could only see weakness in Kaiyurlin – a source of an infection that would eat away at all that he built. Kaiyurlin he pitied, his weakness he hated. 


End file.
